


Define Dead

by Miistical



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst, Character Death, Gen, Ghosts, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-18 06:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5902855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miistical/pseuds/Miistical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the era of the 16th century to the immigration of the 1800s to the modern day, come join in as these old ghosts from different parts of the world marvel at this gifted Seer - you - and their hopeful and painful journey to finally reaching peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

* * *

  
_Dear diary,_

Day 483

I can remember the first time I saw one of them. I was five, and it was my birthday. She looked so lonely, standing there. But when I went up to her to touch her shoulder, my hand went right through. It was only months later did I realize she was a ghost.

I remember another instant that happened just last week:

My mom was driving and my elder brother was in the front seat, so I had to sit in the back. We were going to see a movie together; it's kind of a tradition that if everyone can pick one movie to see, we all go together. When we were waiting at a red light, I looked to my right. Outside the car window, I noticed two "Drive Safe" signs. Usually, those were only placed if someone died there in an accident.

That was the case here.

The sign on the left was surrounded by a family of three; a mother, a father, and their young son. The boy had to be no older than 5.

To the right the sign only had a teenage girl. She held a cell phone in her hand, but it looked like she was trying to throw it away; yet, it did not budge. I guessed that the family died of a drunk driver - what else could it have been? - and the girl died because of her now-hated phone.

Pity and sympathy rose within me in waves and I pressed my hand against the window. The young boy noticed me and waved. He just looked so happy seeing me that I had to wave back. When he saw my reaction his eyes widened in a painful kind of wonder and he tugged on his parents hands.

He captured their attention easily and, once he was sure they were watching closely, he waved to me once more. I, smiling at his innocent wish, waved back.

The motion caught the attention of the young girl and she, with evident confusion, turned to the family, yet did nothing. She then turned to me and I, again, waved. This time it was the family who turned and also did nothing.

I was confused at first before it hit me, a stab in my heart; it wasn't just the living who didn't see them.

They couldn't even see other ghosts.

That saddened me even more, but before I could do anything else, the car started to move again.

Ugh, well, I suppose I must introduce myself. My name is _______, and I am a 25 year-old college student.

And I can see the dead.

  
_  
Goodnight_   


* * *

You closed the journal your mom got you as a birthday present. Really she did not know just how much writing helps. You sighed as you glanced at your nearby clock: 5 o'clock PM.

_It's not that late, and I don't have that much else to do. I'm overdue for some fresh air anyway._

Lightly placing your fingertips to the edge of your computer screen, you pushed it down until you heard the soft click of your laptop closing. You, after pushing your chair back, the old wooden thing causing a horrible screech as it ground into the paneling of your bedroom floor, stood in a quiet stretch.

(Well, not so quiet if the pops and cracks and yawns said anything about your posture.)

With a sigh to release your tense muscles, you padded over to your old sneakers - they were just shy of falling apart, though they still fit perfectly - and quickly laced them up. You paused for a second to throw on a light jacket; no matter the season, it always somehow gets cold at night.

You didn't bother with turning off your bedroom lamp, it wasn't like you were going to be out long anyway. Just a quick visit to the park down the street of your neighborhood. You idly ran the back of your fingers across the smooth railing of your stairway as you made your way to the front door. You did not pause in your walk when you grabbed the keys from their stand in the parlor and walked right outside - the fresh air nearly had your head spinning from how long you had stayed inside.

Breathing in a lungful of the head-spinning, skin-tingling, eye-clearing _fresh air_ , a heavy contrast from the stale air of your room, you locked up your house and slowly made your way to the nearby park. Really, your neighborhood was quiet and unassuming, so you weren't too worried by thugs or kidnappers; the nonexistent crime rate being one of the reasons why you moved here in the first place.

You walk didn't seem nearly as long as it was, you were too lost in your thoughts to notice your surroundings of passing houses and streetlamps. You made a beeline toward the swing-set, your personal favorite since childhood, you plopped yourself down on one of the swings.

(You decided on _not_ taking in your cliche setting; really, just how many times have you seen this exact set-up in various books and movies?

So, in hindsight, you really shouldn't have been all that surprised.)

You lightly rocked back and forth, letting the seconds spill into minutes and tick by in a stream of absolute nothing; just noise, sound in the trees and the grass and the swing-set itself. You came to regret leaving your light on but, and while the electric bill will be abnormally high that month, you couldn't bring yourself to get back up.

You only broke out of your haze when the swing beside you started to move as well. You nearly started at the unexpected intrusion, but you held your breath. By the pricking of your skin and the raised hairs that resided on the back of your neck, you knew this wasn't another person on an innocent outing. You had heard nothing: no crunching of feet, no puffs of breathing, not even the movement of the gravel being stirred.

You forced yourself to relax.

Even before you looked you knew whoever was beside you could not hurt you, and even if they wanted to it's not like they - or you - could do anything.

They were already dead.


	2. Veneziano

**~Oh, sweet child of mine/With your kisses so divine/**  
**Let you not break that quivering dove/Lest you lose Heaven's love~**

Steeling your nerves, you looked to the right and on the swing next to you was a young man, forever stuck in his late teens. His eyes were closed, but his face was pointed in your direction; giving the distinct impression that he was looking at you.

Even with his eyes closed, his expression told you immediately that, like the other ghosts whom you saw frequently, he was lonely and sad.

Before saying anything, you glanced down to his clothes. They looked all kinds of old and worn, as if he was a traveler in life. He was barefoot, with nothing on but frayed trousers that were held by farmer spenders and a button-up shirt tucked into the pants; as if, by doing so, he'd give off some impression of cleanliness. You gazed upward and studied his face, taking in every detail. He had reddish hair, parted down the middle, with a strange curl on the left side of his head. His tanned skin told you he was not from your cold town, no matter how old he might be. His pointed chin, narrow nose, high cheekbones, and slim fingers spoke of the possibility of being from another country.

But how did he end up here, then, if that was the case?

Finally, you turned your body to fully face him. You said nothing and just waited for him to speak; sooner or later he would notice your stare. The man looked (well, as much as one can with closed eyes) at you and his eyebrows crinkled, a little indent that created the only wrinkle on his face. He twisted to "look" over his shoulder in confusion while you stifled the urge to smile at his cuteness. He seemed to have the same adorable caution as a wild hare.

The boy looked back to you and asked in a high, but soft, voice, "Can you... see me?"

Your eyebrows raised in surprise. By his accent, was he... Italian? How on Earth did he end up here?!

Your expression of surprise, but lack of an answer, forced the young man to turn back around; except this time he stood up. He placed his hands on his hips and leaned side to side, as if looking for something that had actually caught your attention instead of him. Shaking your head at his evident confusion, you stood from your swing. The ghost turned around, only to jump in surprise to see that you had also gotten up. His eyes flew open as he squeaked and you caught a glimpse of a molten gold color, a pretty amber.

Oh yeah, definitely Italian. He's hot enough to be Italian, at least.

The young (possible) Italian asked you again, "Can you see me?"

You nodded and smiled, a little quirk as to not scare him off, before saying, "Yup." You popped the 'p' before raising your eyebrows at the ghost before you. "I don't know about you, but I'm going to take a walk." With that you turned around and started to walk back home. (You've learned in your years that, when speaking with a ghost, you have to let them come to you; and nothing helps more then taking the only contact they had from them. It was cruel, in a way, but a wonderful way for them to talk to you; some ghosts had the most interesting stories to tell.)

Though you couldn't hear anything, you knew he was scrambling to catch up to you. Mostly because of his accented words peppered with "Please, stop!" or "Wait up, bella!" but it was your experience that made you confident that he wouldn't give up so easily. However, you didn't know what 'bella' meant, but if he thought it was your name, why correct him?

You stopped your walking to let the poor boy catch up to you. Even though he was a ghost, and therefore cannot get tired, he almost seemed to wheeze when he was by your side. Really, you walked, like, 20 feet!?

Cute? Yes. Athletic? A definite no.

But you had to blush when he jumped right back up, cheerful as can be, with a megawatt smile placed crookedly on his face. If only I could hug him... Shaking off the thought, you faced forward again to hide your blush and resumed walking; though at a much slower pace.

"Ve~ bella? I don't think I got your name! Mine's Feliciano~!" The young man, Feliciano, apparently, said with a smile.

Oh my God, he is too cute. I think I might have to kill myself just so I could hug him; don't you dare squeal, you idiot!

"Bella? Is something wrong? Eh, did I do something wrong?!" Feliciano started to tear up and his lower lip wobbled. Your eyes widened and you wildly waved your hands back and forth, stuttering out random words like: "Oh, no, you didn't do anything!", all to make sure that Feliciano did. Not. Cry.

Really, you haven't even seen a tear yet and you're already freaking out trying to not feel like a complete asshole.

You took a breather and closed your eyes before saying, "My name's _________, nice to meet you."

When you heard his repetitive "ve"s, you opened your eyes and breathed out a sigh of relief. Again his eyes were closed, and there was a smile on his face.

You started to walk again (when did you stop?) and Feliciano followed closely behind. The two of you spoke of nothing, not a single word uttered in the time it took to walk from the park and back to your house. You halted in front of the gate and felt an unearthly chill roll down your spine. It seemed like Feliciano did not stop quick enough and walked through your back. While you stood still, the hyper ghost jumped out of your body and rambled on apologies both in English and another language. (It sounded Italian, but not quite. Or maybe it was Italian and you just got that and Spanish mixed up. It was probably the latter.)

Even though you obviously thought the ghost was cute and a bit of a sweetheart, that didn't mean you could just start being friends with him. He was a ghost! The whole arrangement was completely ridiculous! Yet you still sighed and wished you didn't have to bid a forever farewell to Feliciano, but it had to be done.

However, before you could even open your mouth to force the words out, the young man before you exclaimed, "Oh~! This must be your house! It's very nice~. I'll make sure to come by and see you tomorrow, okay? Ciao~!" Placing his hands millimeters above your cheeks, he gave you a "kiss" on each one before waving and skipping back off to the park.

You watched him go until you could hardly see him any more. Before the Italian could fully disappear, however, he turned back to you and shouted, "Oh, yes! I almost forgot!" Here he grinned so large you could see it even across the large gap between the two of you, "Ve~ call me Feli!" He blew you one last kiss before bounding off.

You stood there, shocked, before your gape slowly turned into a smile, and then a grin. You shook your head as you made your way inside. When you closed your front door, you placed your back against it and slowly slid to the ground. You tucked your knees up to your chest and laid your head down.

Feli, huh? I'm pretty sure I'm not going to get rid of you any time soon. 

* * *

 

True to your word, and his you supposed, Feliciano always made himself known. Over the next months you had gotten to know quite a bit (and by a bit you meant everything) of your ghostly friend. His love for pasta, pretty ladies (when you finally understood what bella meant, you chase him around the park; much to the confusion of anyone passing by), and naps.

The both of you shared stories and interests and you told him many new things in the world, as he was not privy for such information. You let him walk you home and sometimes Feliciano was there, waiting for you to walk to the park.

The Italian (as he soon told you) asked what it was like to be alive and you asked what it was like to be dead. He got melancholy and sad whenever the topic was brought up, but he was always happy to answer any question you might have. You were the same, sometimes sad about just how little you've done, but obliged him in his questions.

You couldn't help that he was holding back, though. You sometimes caught him staring off into the distance and he, very rarely, but it happened, shooed you off once or twice when you noticed.

You knew so little, when you thought about it. While he knew practically your whole life and what you did with it, Feliciano never really... talked. Of course he babbled on and on about anything and everything, but that was the thing: He just babbled on and on about one thing; wasting an entire day with no questions truly answered.

You were almost scared as to why he was like this. But you were going to find out whether you, or Feliciano, liked it or not.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Diary,_

Day 729

I can't help but feel that Feli is hiding something from me. He's never once, even after these eight long months, answer my two questions: what his last name is and how he came to haunt this little park in upstate New York. The latter I understand, telling someone how you died seems pretty taboo; but not telling me his last name? What could possibly be so bad in a name that you refuse to tell anyone?

He's been so kind to me and his adorable curiosity about the world around him is more than just child-like; it's like he's never heard these things before. Which also makes me wonder: Just how old is my "teenage" ghost? He looks no more than 18, and even that's stretching it, but that means nothing to time.

Just when did this Italian cutie make his way to America and, as all evidence points to it, when was he killed here?

 

_Goodnight_

* * *

 The next day you confronted Feliciano about it. That he never once told you what he did or his family or even his last name. And that you came there to ask why. He blanked a bit, just sitting there on the swing's seat. You were about to wave a hand in front of his face, but he gestured to the swing next to him and said the words that would change both of your lives- whatever they were- for eternity.

"It all started with coming here, to America. And everything ended when I was murdered." Your eyes grew wide and you leaned over, about to tell him that something like that never needed to be said; but Feliciano held up a hand, never once looking at you, and softly said, "You need to know. That's all that matters."

You knew you really didn't, that it was his story to tell, but you stopped yourself. You knew that, somehow, he was killed; you just didn't want to accept it completely as what it was. Now, you knew it wasn't just Feliciano's story to tell, but many people's stories. And they deserved a telling.

Feliciano stared blankly ahead, as if seeing his attacker once again. Seeing as his hands clenched over and over again, you could imagine the marks the chain-links that held the swing up embedded deep into his palm.

The feeling of wanting to brush his hair back and kiss his brow nearly overwhelmed you, but his soft and oh-so sad voice kept you sitting and still.

Never looking at you, just at the treeline that fenced in the back of the park, Feli recounted every step he took when he was alive as Feliciano Vargas; the middle child of a small Italian family in the late 1800s.

"We always had each others' backs, no matter what. My big brother, Lovino, he would always yell at me and curse me out of the house, but it was his way of saying he worried and cared. He'd always come back for me. Our younger brother, Martello, he was something. He flirted more than our _nonno_ did. Grandpa Rome was very proud of 'Tello. _Nonno_ prided himself on raising us, since our papa and mama... well, we never did learn why they left. But we were happy." Feliciano closed his eyes and that's when you knew the true story would begin. "It was November 23rd of 1888 and it was the first time I'd ever left home..."

Feliciano told you, well into the night, on how excited he was. How "disgruntled" his older brother was at leaving (Feli told you with a bitter laugh) while Martello was already working on new ways to flirt with American girls. They weren't fleeing anything, Feli reassured you, but with millions left and still leaving, their grandfather knew that work would be much better in America.

Feliciano smiled ruefully, " _Nonno_ always knew what to do. Maybe not what to say, but he was always once step ahead everyone else." You gazed at the ghost next to you and wished so desperately to hold him. Comfort him. But, sadly, this was his battle and his alone.

He went on, all into the night, about how they landed in New York City and made a home, right here. Back when everything was so new and he couldn't keep his eyes open enough. (You wondered if that was why his eyes were normally closed in death; they were always open in life.) That everything was working out. Until he met this girl...

For the first time in his story, Feliciano looked to you. His eyes shined, but you couldn't tell if it was ghostly tears, the moonbeams, or his own inner light. "You remind me so much of her, _bella_." You were shocked, but sad. Is that why he wanted to talk to you so badly?

The ghost smiled a sweet smile. He knew were your thoughts were headed. "Not how you look. How you act." You blinked and sheepishly smiled back. His eyes glowed just a bit more. "She was tall, almost as tall as me. Very muscled and very, very blonde. _Fratello_ didn't like her much," Feliciano leaned in and whispered, "he always said it was because she was German, but I knew it was because he thought she'd take me away." He leaned back and you stifled some giggles. This was so not the appropriate time to be laughing!

Yet, Feliciano didn't seem bothered by it and simply went on with his tale. "She had short hair, like a man's, but she made it pretty. But I always loved her eyes the most. Oh-so blue and they just lit up when she was angry." He winked to you, a sly smile tipping his lips. "I always made sure to make her angry at least once a day." This time you had to laugh, it seemed so... so... unlike the adorable boy you first met. Yet, you believed him. Every word.

He went on and on about the girl ("Her name was Monika. Pretty, isn't it?"), her older brother ("His name was Gilbert, but we didn't see him all that much. Monika always said he was sort of sick, but never exactly told us which disease."), their dates, ("While it was fun to anger her, it was even better to embarrass her. She would always blush and yell at me, but I knew she loved whatever I did for her." He puffed out his chest a bit, "No one else tried to woo her as much as I did.") and how almost everyone in the town wished them a happy future ("They made bets on who would propose: me or Monika."). But, not everyone was happy about the arrangement. You almost rolled your eyes, you had a pretty good feeling it was his older brother, but Feliciano was already shaking his head.

He turned back to the moon, his profile delicately highlighted. "Big brother got over it when I first took her home. He made dinner and everything, even the potatoes Lovino loved to be disgusted over. _Fratello_ wanted me to be happy, even if that meant I wouldn't live with them anymore. He was a good big brother; the best, in fact." You nodded, getting a better grasp at Feliciano's brother.

You paused, however, and your brow crinkled. Feliciano didn't go on. You turned back and straightened in dismay when you caught sight of the last thing you want to see; Feliciano was crying. Yet, you knew better than to say anything. So, you waited.

You did not wait long.

All at once, like a dam breaking, the words flowed from Feliciano's mouth in a steady stream. He told the story of his death very clearly. That, it was a regular night, like the one now and how he was walking back home from the blacksmith. He was planning to propose that night and his murderer knew that.

Feliciano had asked his killer for his daughter's hand in marriage that very afternoon.

Gasping, your hand flew to your mouth and your own eyes watered. _No... please, don't tell me..._

God was not merciful and you could hear the years of pain in Feliciano's raspy laugh. He stood and turned to you; still crying, still smiling. Feliciano held out his arms, like he was about to hug you, but you were rooted to your seat. Still laughing that painful laugh, he continued. Pointed, even, at the spot where the father of his love pointed a gun at his head and shot him dead.

Sliding from the swing's seat, you landed on your knees and began to bawl. Shoulders shuddering from the force, you tried to look through clouded eyes at Feli's silhouette. He, again, turned to the moon as he finally mourned what could have been his life; had a father who believed him undeserving not killed him because of his request for love. You slowly, so slowly, stood on shaking knees. You were going to make your way to him, whether you could touch him or not notwithstanding, but you froze.

Your eyes were locked onto a figure coming from the words, one that looked familiar in a way you've never known. Feliciano noticed your stare and looked that way himself. His breath caught so hard that you could hear it from five feet away. You knew, with that one look, that the figure coming closer was the deathly form of Feliciano's bride-to-never-be; Monika.

You heard him say it, just under his breath; a sense of wonder tinging the word like delicate frosting on a wedding cake. Both of you were rooted to the ground, but the dead woman came closer and closer. Your mind blanked, and you missed something of what she said, but you came to for the explanation.

Feliciano asked it for you. "How are you here?"

Smiling sweetly, Monika caressed Feliciano's cheek. "I know you won't like the truth, but by now, it's all I have to give." Her words held traces of a German accent and your heart started to beat at a normal pace once more. Placing a hand over your heart, you paid close attention. "When my father came to your home, he looked so sad, so sad. He told me you had left." She looked into his eyes and you turned your head. You could hear, but you refused to watch. "He said that you simply weren't there anymore. I called him a liar and..."

The story went on from there, how her family and his searched everywhere, but found nothing that hinted of Feliciano. Monika, hating Feliciano for leaving her, could take no more. Heart broken, she hanged herself from a tree in the woods; the very woods that were encompassing the park. You hear Feliciano fall to the ground, not unlike you did minutes before, and you could picture him clutching her hands and weeping at his darling's fate.

Slowly, you left the park, trying hard to make no noise; knowing that your time there was up. You played the last role in both of their stories, their own epilogue. It was now time for your next chapter, and so you left the reunited couple there; where they would be together forever.

You did not know that you would never see either again, you did not know they would fade into nothingness with the morning light, you did not know that together they thanked you for bringing them back. You would never find answers to the rest of your questions, but you were fine with that.

Some things were better left unexplained.


	3. Germany

** ~How can you not see behind/This shattered glass? Must you be so blind/  
As to walk willingly in?/For this is where tragedy begins~ **

 

Rolling your head to the right, you let your gaze pass through the ghost who was lightly rocking in the swing next to you. Sometimes it was best to pretend you could not see them before talking to them. Ghosts could be skittish creatures, especially the older ones. They knew no one could see them, so you had to earn their trust before you earned their companionship.

 

Your unfocused eyes went through him - at least, you thought it was a him by the build - and strayed to the treeline. Your pseudo-interest in the waving branches did its job by distracting your otherworldly swing-set partner. Focusing back to the ghost at hand, you could safely say that he was a man.

 

Broad shouldered, heavy set, deeply muscled; this was a man of action. Your eyes flicked over him: his hands, an iron grip plain to see; his boot-clad feet; the shift of his back as he stood, a gun strapped tightly there. When he turned back to you, your vision was comprised of medals that gleamed like witch-light and a uniform that spelled  _solider_. While he had no hat, the many pockets that lined both his pants and shirt sent you back to your old History of War course in high school.

 

This was a World War Two English General.

 

The shock of such an oddity - why would an _English_ General be buried in Berlin, Germany? - must have registered on your face. The man stiffened, the movement tensing his arms and legs into lightning rods, rooting him in place. Rushing to catch him by his own surprise, your words stringed into one long exclamation, "Please don't leave, I don't mean any harm, even if that is a stupid thing to say since you're dead and all - and _crap, crap, crap, crap_ that was rude of me to say, wasn't it?"

 

Gulping down a breath, you were slightly red in the face. The coloring slowly grew over the bridge of your nose when the ghost chuckled breathlessly; the human reaction catching you off-guard. You nearly fell off the swing-set when you heard him speak, landing yourself half in and half out.

 

"You remind me of an old Private, _Mädchen_. He spoke like every word would be his last." The soft tone this giant of a man spoke in was startling to say the least. He had a nice voice, some distant part of yourself noticed; a slightly deep baritone, an accent smoothed out and held steady with polished control. If he was English, he had a very convincing German dialect. His ghostly hands - the ones with the silent iron grip - guided you back to your swing. With not another word, he sat back down in his own swing and began rocking again.

 

Normally, the puzzle pieces would have fitted perfectly, but the shock at such a reaction had your mind in cartwheels. _This_ was not normal. Where was the pointing? The shaking? The prayers of "No, I'm not done yet!"? The harsh attitude of untrue blame? The whimpering as if you were there to finally reap them?

 

Was he not as old as you thought? Were you mistaken with his uniform?

 

Seeing as he, apparently, didn't seem to mind, you peered closely at him. Yes, that was a WWII uniform. Yes, it was that of an English General. No, he was not English.

 

As if a part of him came back from the grave, a fierce look shined bright in his cornflower eyes; they spoke of the things he wished he never witnessed. You never got an up-close look at a solider before, so each shift, clench, twitch had your immediate attention. While your eyes roamed over the expanse of the man, they caught little details that had your mouth inching up into a smile. Oh, he was uncomfortable all right, but he let your examination continue on. That wasn't the best part, though.

 

Most ghosts were always somewhat dulled; their colors muted, as if they stepped out of an old movie. Everything but their eyes was somber - you believed that the eyes were windows to the soul and, as something with no body, it would burn bright. Yet it dampened your mood every time you saw this, saw the lively colors so subdued. As such, you were more than a little elated to make this ghost bloom bright red.

 

Quite the odd thing, emotions. Your eyes were wide in thrill you slowly reached over to this ghost and let your fingertips hover just above his cheekbone, the thought of how this was happening singing a sad song in your mind. You wished you could understand how some of these things happened, but you had little answers to your many questions; it was just how it was meant to be, you supposed.

 

You kept on checking his clothing and noting how awkward he was getting but you kept on anyway. If curiosity did kill the cat and satisfaction brought it back, then you were officially calling yourself a cat. You've never been this close, physically, to anyone before. You never really talked to anyone outside a certain group, even back in middle school you'd talk to just a small group of friends, and you were so close that you couldn't see any of them as anything but a sister or brother.

 

The closeness was refreshing in a way you didn't think it could be, but you made yourself stop after a while considering you were creeping him out.

 

_The first person he meets who can see him and they're insane, how lovely!_

 

You were internally bashing your head against a brick wall when you heard him clear his throat. While the brightness had gone away, he still looked visibly nervous and you stilled; silence was your friend as you wait for him to say anything. What he ended up saying was not what you were expecting.

 

"My name is Ludwig. May I ask for yours?" His voice was calm, not betraying what his eyes showed.

 

You paused, stood, and then said, "___________. My name is __________." You wanted to know what he thought you were doing, but he said nothing else and you guessed he liked the silence.

 

You felt it strange that someone used to the silence would prefer it over conversation; that a ghost would want loneliness over company. As you readied to go home (from what the sky told you it was nearing early morning) you thought you felt his eyes on you, but every time you looked back they were gone.

 

When you were walking back the familiar path, you thought more deeply about Ludwig, how it was, perhaps, the feeling of not needing words he craved instead of not using them. That the silence with someone there was what he needed - hell, it was what you needed, too. You thought about this from the park to your front door and everything in between them.

 

You thought you finally got it when you opened the door to the sound of nothing.

 

Closing the door, you weren't exactly too sure what to think. Ludwig was complicated in more than his past life; you couldn't read him like you could most others. Plus, how were you to make out anything when his dress and his person were so very different?

 

However, you were, albeit strangely, glad to have met him. Loneliness plagued you and maybe this silent man could help with that. 

 

* * *

 

The days following you would make your way to the park and just sit on the swings. Sometimes you would bring homework, other times a book; anything to occupy yourself while Ludwig the silent ghost would sit beside you. After a week of doing this, you seemed to be more reliable as that is when he started to speak.

Sometimes he would ask you questions, ranging from the book you brought to how many siblings you had. Other times he reminded you of the old man he was; going on and on about his days in the war, maybe the times before, but never any time after. It didn't take much for you to realize that there _was_ no after.

So, in your days and weeks and months talking with each other as lone company on chilly nights, you've come to know more and more about Ludwig. You were very happy to learn the little things about him the most, though.

Apparently, and you found and still find it sweet, he has less trouble talking to you than others. By others, he explained, he meant people he remembered and how loud or rowdy they were. However, he didn't spill why he was comfortable around you, but you didn't mind too much.

That, unfortunately, changed over time.

You started looking more into his comments - you knew there were double meanings and secret inside jokes hidden among them. You wanted to know why he compared you to his old friends; why one specific person, what did they mean to him?

As the weeks passed by, your sense of personal space shrunk until it was practically nonexistent. Ludwig would make a quip - "You laugh like my older brother, you know. No, that was not a compliment." - and you would _see_ the memories invade his eyes, like he didn't mean to say that but his old soul wouldn't listen to his head.

Then there people he called not by name. His "childhood friend", "Private", "teammate"; all of them different people who obviously meant a lot to him. Ludwig would compare your speaking patterns to his old Private and, dear Lord, if you were to mention eating habits he'd start a tangent he knew from heart. If you spoke around a point he asked, he would make sure you knew that he knew what you were doing, that his old teammate and friend - you got him to say it was a Japanese man one day - had done the exact same.

The worst was his childhood friend and - that was it. All of that you knew was in that one title. But you were smarter than that; you knew love when you saw it and, apparently, Ludwig had no idea that it was love.

He had no memory of that love either.

Ludwig could not remember who he or she was, could not remember what they sounded like, what they wanted to be, or what they looked like. Of course, he said this only on days where he believed you weren't paying attention and he would whisper to the stars, as if they had answers in their tails. One day you had asked him if he remembered anything from that time. He was startled but you just waited.

Quietly, he told you, "They liked to paint. To draw. I would not be surprised if they were famous now."

Which is why, now, you are exhausted by not sleeping for the last few days and nights - somebody is bound to know something about Ludwig's missing friend and, by God, you were going to find them.

 

* * *

  


 _Dear Diary,_

Day 694

  
I honestly have no idea what I'm doing at this point. I want to help Ludwig, but he doesn't ever _really_ open up to me. I wish he did - I mean, he's told me so much about the military and how it works, his old friends, even his older brother!

But he still won't tell me _why_.

Why is it so important to him? Why won't he tell me what's really bugging him? Why won't he tell me about what happened? He refuses to speak about much of the war, even the things at the beginning of it are too hard to talk about, apparently. I want to help, but how can I when the most I get from him is "I wouldn't be surprised if they were famous"????

Hopefully I'll be able to find something about it soon - I just went through my "old school memories" box. Jeez, mom kept everything, but I'm glad she did. I've been wondering if the stuff from my WWII field trip survived over the years. Maybe they'll uncover something? Unlikely, but worth a try.

Anything is worth it at this point.

 

 _Goodnight_

  


* * *

  
When you sat down at your regular swing, you felt as if you had sealed your fate to this seat; everything rode on what you were about to say. But even when time stretched on and Ludwig had joined you in his predictable silence, your throat failed to open; your mouth failed to speak; your vocal cords failed to work. It was as if everything in your body had turned brittle and cold, as if you had turned to stone.

Your thoughts raced each other in circles in your head, skipping around like a game of hot potato or something; everything was so jumbled that you were sure even your thoughts had thoughts that thought you were crazy. If you needed proof, there it was.

While it was a futile effort, you took a deep breath and, very calmly, blurted out, "I think I know who your childhood friend was!"

Your neck went limp in disbelief that you had really just said that and out of no where to boot. Thankfully Ludwig seemed less taken aback by your outburst and simply cleared his throat and waited for you to stop feeling embarrassed. If you didn't have his attention before, you had it now, his laser-like eyes practically boring into your soul as he waited for you to explain what you meant.

You came to learn that Ludwig was pretty _bad_ at emotions and he appreciated things straight to the point, so this was probably his way of impatiently telling you to get on with it. So, you cleared your throat and began from the first day he brought this up.

You told him how it made you sad that he didn't know what happened to such a memorable person, so you took it upon yourself to do as much research needed to give his unasked questions some answers. You, in a small voice, told Ludwig that you wanted him to be able to rest in peace, knowing that those he loved did something great with their lives.

Sadly, you could only give him partial news.

Apparently his old friend was a boy named Feliciano Vargas. He was a prodigy in art and many paintings of his from his childhood hung in museums across the world. While Ludwig could give you little information, it wasn't too difficult to find him. Feliciano was raised as a girl by his father, to hopefully bring out a softer side to his art unlike his older brother, who preferred farming to art, but that's as much information on the brother as you could get.

You talked and talked and talked, rambling on and on about how skilled an artist he was, but that he stopped painting around the late 30s. You did not know anything after that, but you continued to fill the space with words and run-on sentences, detailing how you found copies of his paintings in some old storage when you went on your school's annual WWII field trip. You kept talking and talking until Ludwig lifted his hand to quiet you.

He looked troubled, though you couldn't imagine why. Maybe he was still digesting everything you said? Maybe he didn't want to know? Maybe what you said made zero sense?

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, he did not take long to speak.

"It was World War Two," Ludwig started, like he did with most things, quiet and strong. "Feliciano and Kiku were with me at the time but I lost them in the siege; I have no idea if they made it out. Feliciano could run faster than he was shot at - he always joked about having Italian legs and an American heart, that idiot - while Kiku - I swear he was a samurai in another lifetime - was an honorable man, such as the Japanese were, and a mind about him like the English."

You weren't too sure where he was going, but as time went on and words filled the air, you slowly began to understand.

At the beginning, the very beginning, Ludwig told you about how they all came to be close friends, how Feliciano was a part of that branch specifically looking for his older and younger brothers, Marcello and Lovino. (Ludwig could not tell you if Feliciano found them, but, together, you hoped so.) On the other hand, Kiku was there to restore the lost honor his country no longer had. Ludwig detailed how the Japanese man felt; how he seemed betrayed by his nation and was there to right its wrong.

Then there was Ludwig himself. Of course he did not detail his own back ground, but you got his meaning. That his leader was insane and he refused to let innocents be slaughtered for the twisted goal of one man. That was all Ludwig needed to flee Germany with his brother to England in search of recruitment.

In between the scenes of demise he saw, he also told you many sweet things. How the three of them were many a time teased, called "The Axis" by their teammates because of their nationalities. Apparently an American Officer, Alfred was his name, gave them the most trouble for it - he gave shit to everyone, though, so Ludwig supposed it was how he kept the mood light.

Ludwig went on about his fellow soldiers; he talked about the ones he knew whom survived and the ones who he saw die before him. He talked about the Germans and their brutality, the Russians and their strength, the Canadians and their resolve. Ludwig talked like he never spoke a word before, as if the memories he had would be cemented if he turned them into words.

It took a while before you realized that that was exactly what he was trying to do.

He kept going on and on until he finally hit his own death, no detail given, no detail needed. Yet, he ended this with, "And that is why I cannot believe you."

Your chest stopped as you inhaled sharply. All of that, all of the terrible memories brought up, all of it was to tell you that he didn't believe you? You were baffled, rightly so, and you could only stare at him, waiting for the punchline of this cruel joke. You're not too sure if the one he gave was what you were expecting.

His gaze was not on you and you didn't mind. When he told you, "I cannot believe you because that means I lost the chance to tell him how much I loved him." you were sure that you would burst into tears if he were looking into your eyes. But perhaps that would be better than not seeing them at all.

Slowly, before you, Ludwig began to fade. You had no energy left in you to even reach for him, but luckily he reached for you. Shivers and goosebumps erupted when he touched your hand, his ghostly fingers wrapped around your wrist. You could not bring yourself to look away. Quietly, he said, "Go to the War Cemetery. I will be in the back, second to last row. You will know which one is me." Then the chill disappeared and you were left alone.

The sudden shock of warmth sprung you out of your seat and you raced down the park's path and on to the sidewalk and you ran. You did not stop to see the time, you did not stop to check the streets, you did not stop to do anything, not even when you brought up the cemetery's location on your phone, you did not stop for a second.

Following the instructions were hard as Ludwig gave you nothing more than a name and a row, but you found the cemetery a while before sunrise. Sleep was for the weak at this point, you had a job to do.

By the time you got there you were panting from your run. Of course, at this time of night, it was closed, but you would get in there anyway. Sure, a fence could keep out people, but not someone who refused to let anything get in their way. It took you half an hour to get over the stupid thing and you were sure you landed on something wrong when you fell part of the way, but you were in.

You, adrenaline pumping so hard you didn't even notice if you were in pain or not, walked down the row of tombstones, ignoring all of them in favor of the oldest in the back. Everything began to blur and noise sounded like static in your ears as you, ever so slowly, made your way down the second to last row.

Your feet halted just steps away from the shallow and old grave sight, a chill crawling down your spine as you looked at the ones that surrounded it. Some were in ruins, others so worn down you couldn't even tell there was a name there once upon a time, and few were decorated brightly, still visited by those who remembered their name. You walked closer, just baby steps, before you couldn't move a single inch more.

You didn't breathe. You couldn't. Not when you saw what had become of Ludwig.

His grave was among many just like it, except his was more damaged than the rest, like not one person took care of it. If you were honest, no one probably did. As you knelt down, you wondered why. Why anyone could leave a grave so untouched by humanity that it looked like it didn't even belong there. Sadly, your question was answered.

Engraved into the tombstone was one word: Unknown. That was all there was of Ludwig's German soul, all there ever could be.

Before you knew it, tears streaked your cheeks. This man you've come to know could only ever be marked as unknown, a casualty of a war he did not have to fight but fought anyway. Who fought for the good side, the right side, who turned against his own flesh and blood and land and people for the just cause. All he got was an unmarked burial place with no love and a wandering soul who wondered if anyone who kept his memory was still alive.

You would do your damnedest to make sure at least one person carried his memory. You wiped yourself free of tears, ignored the ache in your chest, and stood.

All you could think about was this brave and noble man. How he died for freedom, not for country. How he served his people and they will never know. You wondered, as you backed away from his grave, what his children would have been like. What his descendents would have looked like, how they would have acted, what language they would have spoken.

You couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if this man, the courageous Ludwig, would have lived; would he have gotten married? Find his friends? Have children?

The thought choked you, but it flew across your mind, breaking your haze anyway: _Would his children be as brave? As handsome? As strong?_ _As sweet?_

But you knew that you could never know. So, there in the fading moonlight, you made your way back home, hurriedly unlocking and re-locking the gate when you went through. However, you did not leave until you whispered a promise to him - not to the tombstone or to the wind or to the gate - but to him. "Don't you worry, Ludwig. I'll remember you. Forever."

And then you turned and left to the sound of his voice echoing your name goodbye.


	4. Austria

**~Let no man take his place/Let him know no love is a race/**

**That you heart, with its eternal beat/To capture it is no small feat~**

 

You steeled yourself for another foray into the wonderful world that was the undead. You were used to the extremes of your ghost-seeing lifestyle, but it never mattered if the ghost was a coward or an asshole; the first meeting always left you in shivers.  
  
Shifting in the swing-set seat, you stretched your legs and covered your mouth in a fake yawn. While you were moving, you glanced over to the ghost before quickly looking away. You had used this trick many times before, and it seemed to work this time just as well. Distracting ghosts wasn't a hard thing to do since they craved for the movement of the living - well, at least most did, anyway. So while you twitched a few fingers, flexed a few muscles, and huffed at a few strands of hair, the ghost beside you wouldn't be focused on your attention to them, but rather on your body and how you moved.  
  
(Truth be told, it was a little creepy, but if you were stuck around no one for, well,  _ever_ , you suppose you'd stare too. Still didn't make it any less creepy though.)  
  
After releasing your final sigh, your arms stretched high above your head in an attempt to loosen any stiffness, you let your body sag ungracefully while you contemplated just who your ghostly friend could be. From what you could tell, he looked like a stereotypical composer: tiny glasses, an ascot, and a really ridiculous jacket. But even with that ridiculous jacket, he had to be somewhat rich to wear it; most ghosts didn't wear purple unless they were royalty or just had a ton of money.  
  
_'Ugh, I_ still _wish I could have slapped that ghost in the face before he left,'_  you thought, hands propped on your hips.  _'I thought elite Roman soldiers were suppose to be revered or something, not a ten out of ten on the Dickhead Meter.'_  
  
While lost in your head, you didn't notice the ghost huffing and moving around to stand in front of you until he snapped his fingers right in front of your face. Yelping, you stumbled back into the swing, the chains that attached the seat to the frame cutting into your palms along the way.  
  
With the ghost right in front of you, his arms crossed and violet eyes fixed in a stern glare that could almost stab you like a knife, all you could get yourself to say was, "Well don't you look like a pretentious pompom?"  
  
His stare became withering as his mouth curled in distaste, but you had to admit: If you had heard someone say that, you would have hurt yourself laughing. As it was now, you couldn't help but let a giggle escape anyway at the ridiculousness that was both this ghost and this situation. No one seriously wearing an ascot should be able to give that good of a Mother Glare.  
  
Before you could offended him any more, the ghost fixed his cracked glasses and sniffed, "It seems that the only Seer I am fortunate enough to meet is nothing but a child; how tragic."  
  
You narrowed your eyes, all traces of mirth gone in an instant, and you could see the surprise flash in the ghost's eyes as you spoke, "I am no  _child_ , you bastard." You snorted before scoffing, "And this Seer is the only one you're going to get - so suck it up, buttercup."  
  
The ghost snapped, "I was a part of a world famous orchestra in my living days, you have no right to speak to me like that."  
  
You deadpanned, "Key word is  _living_ , hot shot. If you haven't noticed, you're old; why should I care?"  
  
Even though the ghost - whose nickname would now be Ascot Asshole - was another complete ten out of ten on the Dickhead Meter, you couldn't help the twinge of respect you had for the guy. You were okay with instruments, it was never a thing you were super obsessed about, but you could appreciate great music just like anyone else.   
  
So being a part of an orchestra? Pretty impressive, you had to admit.  
  
Ascot Asshole drew himself up and threw back his shoulders, "Because  _I_  am Roderich Edelstein."  
  
The name didn't ring a single bell, but you nodded like you were amazed anyway, "Well, I'm ________. Nice to meet you, I guess."  
  
Roderich (you already missed calling him Ascot Asshole) seemed to have calmed some, "It is a pleasure to finally meet a Seer, though one without such a vocabulary would have been much more desired."  
  
Your eyes widened and you sighed, "You can't just not insult someone can you?" You slowly shook your head and continued without letting him answer, "Damn, Ascot Asshole, you really ain't a social fucker, huh?"  
  
You didn't really mean to call him your little nickname you had created for him, but it just seemed to fit the mood. Besides, you decided it was  _so_  worth it as you slowly watched Roderich get more red the more flustered he got.  
  
You tilted your head to the right while you thought,  _'I didn't realize a ghost could get that red.'  
  
_ By the time Roderich seemed to get over your quote unquote "filthy language", a smirk curved your mouth. You didn't really care, simply because it was too funny to, but you guessed you felt a little bad once he finally got his bearings back.  
  
"Why I never! Do you speak to all of your superiors in such a way? No, do not answer that, I do not wish to know! I cannot believe this!" Roderich clenched his teeth and hissed, "Damn you, Antonio, this is all your fault!"  
  
You blinked and was right about to ask who the hell Antonio was, but Roderich vanished before you could even get the first word out. You heaved yourself out of the seat, the chains leaving deep indents that marred the skin of your hands, but you didn't really notice that. You looked all around you, but there seemed to be only one thing to say that could accurately describe how you were feeling:  
  
"Great, a ghost who likes to roleplay as Houdini. Well,  _fuck me_ , this should be interesting." 

* * *

_Dear Diary,_

_Day 602_

 

Oh sweet diary, save me. Our  _lovely_ Roderich still has a lightning rod up his aristocratic, posh  **ass**. (Sorry for abusing you diary, but the need to bold was far too great to ignore.) Even though we had such a rocky first meeting it could have been an avalanche, we actually got along pretty well afterwards. I guess it helped that I apologized at our second meeting, but at least we can stand each other for more than an hour now. I kind of wish it was different though, our first meeting was pretty hilarious and the only thing I've learned from this new experience is that Roderich can be pretty damn boring.

He's a very plain man who speaks like he's literally older than dirt. He does have some eccentric quirks, though. So far I've managed to steal some information from him in the form of "tea talk". Score one for mother and her weird obsession with etiquette and manners - I'd probably never have gotten this far without it. Sadly, what I've gotten is still pretty useless in the grand scheme of things; I want to know what happened to him, not that he was particularly fond German chocolate cake!

Well, I guess some of it was still good to know. Whenever I had brought something to eat with me as I visited him, he'd always ask what ingredients were used and how it was made. The first few times were a little awkward when I said I didn't know, but I always make sure to ask now.

He also hates to know there's such a thing as  _Goodwill_. Not because of what it does, but because, and I still can't believe this, he doesn't understand why anyone would get rid of "perfectly good clothes". Roderich once told me about how he even sewed a pair of underwear together for a  _friend of his_. If that doesn't scream weird, I wouldn't know what would.

Out of everything though, I think it's his musical prowess that I find the most interesting. He spoke fondly of playing the piano when he was little, as did he talk about the violin; not to mention the whole 'I was in a famous orchestra' thing. Still, I never got anything more than "I played instruments", and it's slowly killing me. Honestly, for a guy that loves music as much as he does, he doesn't really talk about it. I wonder why that is.

Ugh, I guess that's just another mystery to go through. I think it's finally time to do a little research on one Roderich Edelstein and find out just who he is and why he's still hanging around. I'll start tomorrow, there's no point in doing it now; besides, I have a certain Ascot Asshole to visit. Oh the joy.

  


_Goodnight_  

* * *

Normally, you wouldn't be caught dead willingly waking up before nine. But desperate times called for desperate measures, so you were up, stomach full of a hasty breakfast and fully dressed, by eight in the morning. You had planned on going out that day, like most week days, but the rising sun caught you on your computer, tab after tab filled with any information you could find on your ghostly asshole. Luckily, it was pretty easy to find out who he was; finding out what happened, however, was a completely different story.

Your first question ("What was Roderich doing in a park of all places?") was answered in the first search, fortunately enough. You found out through the wonder of the internet that an old opera house once stood there - but you were shocked that it wasn't any old opera house, but the  _first_  Vienna State Opera House. There had always been talk of an opera house that had been built before the one everyone knew today, but it never went farther than that.

Or so you, in your 'everyone is delusional' opinion, thought.

The first Vienna State Opera House had been built in 1810, though it finally opened in 1869. Unlike the one that now stood in one of the busiest parts of Austria,  _this_ opera house had been built in a lot that was owned by the head architecture himself. It was a supposed retreat for Austria's rich and famous, a secluded area that hosted only the best and brightest performers, any and all unwelcome guests bared from the premises by a 20 foot high wrought-iron fence. To you, it was no opera house, but rather a fortress built by the rich, for the rich.

But you doubted any security measure in the world would have been able to stop the murder you knew had to have taken place. It only took a few clicks before you got to the page, which read: "...but there is a good reason for this particular opera house to have been torn down and rebuilt in a more promising area. A death had occurred during a performance in the Summer of 1892, just 23 years after its grand debut opening. In the middle of a piece that was said to have been played by the Vienna Philharmonic, whose members were handpicked from the orchestra of the Vienna State Opera House, a body dropped from the rafters. 

"The murdered was the orchestra's own Roderich Edelstein, a prodigy at the age of 25 who had been nominated as the Vienna Philharmonic's next solo pianist. He had been hanged from the ceiling by a length of rope that was normally used for lowering the lights down to the stage. Yet the true cause of death was caused by, from what officials had stated, a harp wire. This is a devastatingly horrifying way to die, brutal in every aspect, so herein lies the true question: who hated Sir Edelstein so much that they resorted to strangulation?

"After all, the killer was never found...."

You sat back, thoughts racing each other at 200 miles per second. All at once everything clicked in place, and the pieces of this one million piece puzzle flew into place one by one. Your eyes snapped back to the screen, your fingers flying across the keyboard as you typed in 'Roderich Edelstein' into the search bar.

_'Oh, thank you God for creating_ Wikipedia _!'_ You thought as you clicked the first link in the list of results.

The article contained more information than Roderich probably willingly gave out in his lifetime, yet you saw, with no small amount of satisfaction, that it stated no where of what you had come to learn personally. You shook off the thought, and the slight feeling of superiority, and began your search throughout the page.

Again, the article explained who he was and how he died, but nothing mentioned in a suspect in his death. You know that this was far above you, and something Roderich would never tell you himself, but you pushed down the guilt of ripping into his private life by reminding yourself that this was all for his benefit. Taking a deep breath, you slowly let it out and counted to ten before diving back into the story that was Roderich Edelstein. You already knew much of what  _Wikipedia_  had to tell you, but you stopped abruptly when it mentioned Roderich's family - mainly, his never bride-to-be, Elizabeta Héderváry.

Apparently, Roderich had proposed to Elizabeta just a week before his death, though only close friends and family members were told. You knew far too many ghosts, you knew far too many stories, for this to be just a simple coincidence. It even stated that, in an interview with Elizabeta after the funeral, she told the reporters that only six people knew of their engagement at the time of his death: Roderich's cousins Ludwig and Gilbert, a childhood friend named Vash and his sister Lili, and two close friends named Antonio and Francis.

The name Antonio ringed a bell and you rolled over to your journal. Flipping back through the pages, you found the entry you made on the day you met Roderich in the park. You had written down that Roderich had cursed Antonio and blamed the man for _something_. Eyebrows furrowed and lips pinched tight, you stored the information away and returned to the article.

The interview came with a picture and, just by looking at it, you knew. Your throat closed up as you gazed at the faces in the old photograph, everyone's smiling face shining back. Except for two. You knew guilt when you saw it, you knew depression when you saw it, you knew regret and shame and agony when you saw it - it did not matter how well or how big or how bright someone could smile, it was always obvious when it was faked. The eyes betrayed all and there was no happiness in the eyes of Roderich and Antonio.

There were ghosts of suicide and ghosts of accidents; spirits who lived with hatred and continued to hate even after death; specters who listened in on the life they could have had if they had done one thing differently; the ghosts of shootings, of torture, of hanging, of overdose, of manslaughter. So many souls still littered the Earth and each of their stories bleaker than the last. You had learned much from simply talking with them (a flashback to Italy), how emotions shined through the eyes (a memory of Japan), that death hid in the smiles of those closest to you (a whisper back in Germany); you could see it. It was there, glinting against the lens of the camera that had taken the picture first - there, in Antonio's smiling mouth and crying eyes, was the look of someone who had nothing to lose.

_'What happened between you two? Did you get into a fight? What was it about? Why did it push Antonio to do it? Roderich...,'_ your thoughts trailed off, your eyes staring lifelessly out of the window and wind that howled there.

You whispered to the wind, sure that it would hear you and bring your question to Roderich himself, "What did you  _do_?"

* * *

 There was nothing you could possibly find on Roderich’s friend Antonio besides some tidbits about a family business. Antonio was apparently a part of a family of record keepers and was going to take over the business while his older brother joined the military - and that's about as much as you could find. You were tired of trying to hunt down a ghost who didn't stick around, though you would much rather be killed with a spoon than ask Roderich himself. While the internet was perfect for finding information fast, sometimes things slipped through the cracks or was just never there in the first place. Thus you headed out, the sun in its highest stretch at noon, and walked the ten minutes it took to the town’s library.

You never really visited the old building, but, then again, neither did anyone else. You simply had no reason to while others warned you to just never go - you never really cared enough to know, so you never asked. 

The ten minute walk there filled your head with nothing but wind, the static hollowing out any thought you had, your only goal now was to reach the library and the knowledge it hopefully contained. When you got there you almost had to double-back as you were sure the marble columns and stone steps you saw out of the corner of your eye belonged to a cathedral rather than a library, and it was thanks to the sign alone - “City Public Library, 1608” - that stopped your feet from passing it by.

The heels of your shoes were muffled thumps on the polished steps, the shine of the stairs so bright as the sun reflected its own rays onto them. You looked around, your hair whipping in the howl of the breeze yet the heavy-set pillars refused to bend or buckle to nature’s whim.

The arch of the doorway soared high above your head, the grain of the wood smooth against your palm when you pushed the doors open, the hinges silent as if they were brand new. The inside only confirmed what you knew from the outside: that no age had weathered a single inch of the library’s majesty. The walls were a deep, dark shade that seemed to seep with the feeling one got from the ancientness of a millennia old forest.

The building itself felt like home - not _a_ home, but the home you lived in and carried with you everyday, whether it was inside yourself or in another person. You could see the areas designated for the comfort of the people who came here; as if they were instead by a fireplace, where they could spend an evening alone with the familiarity of a book wrapped in leather or paper and hear the crinkle of the spine as it opened or, rather, molded together with a lover as limbs traced limbs in silence as eyes took in one another by candlelight.

But what really caught your eye were the lines and lines and _lines_ of bookshelves; novels and comics and newspapers dating all the way back to the early 1600s. They were stacked and shelved and sprawled just about everywhere, yet there was method to this madness. It looked like everything was both in and out of place, the shelves completely lined but the tables nearly spilling over with the years upon years of history that weighed them down.

The feel of the library draped itself over you, its embrace like the soft silk of a grandmother's shawl, worn in all the right places but not threadbare. You closed your eyes and breathed in the warmth that was years of burnt cinnamon candles, the headiness making your head spin.

Suddenly, a crack to your left snapped you out of your reverie, your neck groaning in pain at the speed of which you whipped around. Nestled in a corner was the librarian's desk, a ten foot long slab of red-tinted wood. You could see the dents and nicks in the wood from where you stood, but it was not the desk that caught your attention. Rather, your attention was focused all on the man behind it.

His cupid bow mouth curled in a grimace before hissing, “Close the door! We don't need bugs and shit in here!”

As you raced to do as he said, you thought, _'Well, now I know why people never come to the library; it's run by an asshole!'_

You turned around, the magnificence of the library a blur in your vision, and faced the man, your hands propped on your hips. The man grunted, "Oh, don't give me that look, _bella_ , you would do the same if this library belonged to your family."

Blinking, you dropped your irritated charade and sighed, "Yeah, sorry about that. It's just," you gestured to the hundreds of thousands of books along each wall, "wow. I'm honestly amazed at how amazing this place is."

The librarian seemed to stand a little straighter in response and chuckled, "Why, _thank you_ , it is quite the compliment coming from a beauty such as yourself." He took your hand in his and pressed a heated to kiss to the back of it, "My name is Lovino Vargas and I am the librarian; how may I be of assistance?"

You could feel your cheeks heat up at the accent that frosted his words like a sweet you really shouldn't eat. A hot Italian in an Austrian library? You were pretty sure you weren't in _The Matrix_  and that this little fantasy was actually real and happening and - _'Oh God, I'm staring! Come on, _________, open that big mouth of yours already!'_

You blurted, "Do you mind helping me find someone?"

Lovino raised a curious eyebrow, "I'm sure I have something to help you. Do you know the name and when they lived?"

"He lived in the late 1800s and was a friend of Roderich Edelstein - you know, the musician who died?" You bit your lip in frustration, "All I know is that his name was Antonio and that he - ."

Lovino cut you off, his hands clasping yours, his green eyes wide and searching, "Antonio? A Spanish man: brown hair, green eyes, average height? The man who had a secret affair with Roderich Edelstein? _That_ Antonio?"

You nodded excitedly before your brain caught up with what Lovino said and gasp, "Wait, _what_? A secret affair?!"

Lovino nodded sharply before yelling over his shoulder in rapid Italian. You couldn't understand what he said, though the reply came back in English, "But I thought you said it was stupid?!"

"It _is_  stupid and it is _still_  stupid!" Lovino yelled back, his cheeks flushed a dark red, "But a lovely customer needs to find something and it will help!"

Lovino turned back to you and kissed your hand one more time before finally letting go, "So sorry about that my dear, but my younger brother can be quite the idiot at times."

You waved a hand, hoping the blush in your cheeks would fade away soon, and nervously laughed, "Oh no, that's fine. But, uh, what are you getting, exactly?"

Your hot Italian opened his mouth to answer you, but a higher voice beat him to it, "Ve~ they're letters! Quite a few them, too, but they’re our great-great-great-grandpa Antonio's letters to be exact!"

A copy of Lovino popped up from behind his shoulder, his grin nearly blinding you as he leaned closer to your face. Suddenly, he went careening out of the way, his arms windmilling to keep him balanced, the box of letters safely in Lovino's arms.

Lovino snapped, "Oi, Feliciano, what did I say about personal space? _Get some, damn it_!"

The older of the two huffed and turned back to you, a smoldering smile in place, which sent your face up in flames for what felt like the thousandth time in the last five minutes, "Now, _bella_ , these letters belonged to an ancestor of ours and, if I am right, they also belong to the very man you are searching for.”

Gingerly, you took the wooden box from Lovino, your grip strong as you cradled the heavy compartment against your chest. The lid of it cut into the fabric of your shirt, the dull edge sure to leave a line to last hours. The box was smooth from wear and the hundreds of hands that had to have touched it; yet you could still see the care in its creation, how intricate the slopes still were.

The thought of holding a tangible piece of history, one so personal to the person you were trying to help, snatched the air from your throat. You croaked, “Thank you for your help.”

Lovino bent and kissed your cheeks before murmuring, “It was a true delight to assist you.”

Your faced burned at the whisper and it grew only worse when Feliciano bounded over to you, his hands capturing yours in a loose grip, “If you need any more help, just call me or big brother over and we'll try our best! If you want a place to sit, I suggest the corner with all the fluffy pillows!”

Lovino pulled Feliciano back by the shirt, a frown marring his lips, “Oi, get back to work and stop bothering them.”

Feliciano hopped on the balls of his feet and saluted, “Aye aye, Captain!”

The elder brother rolled his eyes before leading you to the corner Feliciano had described. There had to have been at least 50 pillows from what you saw, each one a different color. You could easily imagine the cushions lining the bed of a Pharaoh in Egypt or spilling out from the secret hookah lounges where Turkish officials smoked in.

Lovino played with the ends of your hair, effectively bringing you back to your own moment in time, and sighed, “Well, like my idiot of a brother said, if you need any more help, don't be shy to ask.”

The Italian left you with nothing but your thoughts, a box that could send a ghost to rest, and a mountain of pillows. You sighed to yourself, the feeling of weariness resonating down into your stomach and into you soul, and fell into the mound of pillows. They sank underneath your weight and followed the lines of your body until it looked like the pillows were made to mold specifically to you and you alone. You wiggled your shoulders in a small movement of childish joy and let yourself marvel at the craftsmanship for just a few seconds longer than you should have.

When you were finally settled, you drew your knees up until you could comfortably rest Antonio's box on your lap. You traced the contours of it one last time before you opened it. You gaped at its contents, the letters inside almost bursting with just how many there were. The Vargas brothers were not kidding when they had told you that their three times great grandfather had wrote a lot of letters.

Delicately, you plucked a single letter out from the stop, but stopped at the date of it: _JANUARY, 1942_. You chewed on your lower lip for a few seconds before you shook your head and delved deeper into the box, unconcerned for any paper cuts you might get. If you were going to find out anything useful you wanted to start from the beginning.

Soon enough you had every letter piled around you, each one separated into its own year. Some years were missing while others had a letter written for every day, but the last letter happened to be the very one you took out first. When you began your search for the information you needed to push Roderich out of the living world, you could tell that Roderich held a secret so close that you doubted even death could have separated it from him: Roderich truly loved his killer.

The first few letters were as you expected, simple retellings of Antonio's day. However, as it got closer to 1887, you could make out a feeling there, one that overshadowed all others. At first, you couldn't place your finger on it, why the tone of Antonio's letters had changed - that is, until you remembered what Lovino had said:

_"Antonio? A Spanish man: brown hair, green eyes, average height? The man who had a secret affair with Roderich Edelstein?_ That  _Antonio?"_

Your eyes widened and you threw away your plan of slow and steady as you reached for the next letter, your eyes racing over the faded, black ink. Antonio spoke of Roderich often, but the Spaniard spoke of quite a few people too. You finally got what you needed when you reached for the first letter of the smallest pile you had: _FEBRUARY, 1892_. The year sent alarms off in your head as you nearly ripped the envelope open - that was the year Roderich had died.

In the letter was only three sentences: _'Today, Roderich told me that he could no longer love me, that our union would never be blessed. He said he wanted me to be happy, with a woman who could give me children and heirs, and then he left. He left me for Elizabeta - oh, how that woman deserves more than our broken love; how I deserve more than a broken heart.'_

Your throat closed up, emotion seizing your heart and your eyes. Even with blurred vision, you could tell that water had dripped onto this parchment before; you knew that Antonio had wept as he wrote. You swallowed your heart, which seemed to have crept into your throat without you noticing, and reached for the second letter.

This time, Antonio told you exactly what you needed to know. But, you could not escape the feeling that your need did not outweigh Antonio's privacy. Still, you thumbed at the open flap of the envelope before you softly slipped the parchment from its holder and unfolded it.

It read: _'I did it. Me. I broke Roderich's heart just like he broke mine. I cannot get his eyes out of my mind, how betrayed they looked, how shocked. I had lured him to the rafters with the promise of a gift that could only be seen from above - and he believed me, because we had once been lovers after all. He knew what I planned to do the moment I took out the wire, yet he did not try to stop me. I do not know which is worse: the betrayal I felt all those months ago or the betrayal I saw in the eyes I had sworn my life to. Please, God, I know I will never atone for this sin, but if you hear me, let me atone for Roderich's. Let him know my love for him will never fade, as will my regret. Please, God, let him know that he will always be my first and only true love.'_

A gasped wrenched itself from your lips and you pressed a hand against your mouth to silence the shudder of your oncoming tears. A horrible keening noise filled your ears and it took you a few seconds to realize that it was coming from you, though it was only a fraction of the sorrow you felt for the lovers who could never be and for the lover who still waited and who still _didn't know_ of Antonio's eternal devotion.

You so desperately wished to run straight out of the library and bring your knowledge right to Roderich, but you knew that you were not finished just yet. There were still letters to be read and you needed to know what Antonio did with his life up until that last letter in January of 1942. In preparation you steeled yourself against anything that would trigger another onslaught of of weeping; you didn't need the Vargas brothers hearing your despairing wails. It turned out that while you could beat back the ocean that threatened to pour from you, you could never hope to to keep the sadness from dragging you down under.

The letters after 1892 were few and far in between, as if Antonio felt no reason to keep a record any more. Any letter for the next five years was filled with nothing but utter loathing for himself, as a random mixture of pure anger for Roderich's decision and complete devastation at what Antonio had done. Some letters were scorched, as if he had once held them over a fire but could not drop them, and others were hardly legible, the long-since dried ink ran down in lines that spoke of the tears that had been shed there.

However, most of Antonio's depression ended in the last letter of 1897 as he stopped writing completely for the next four years. Antonio picked up again in the Spring of 1901, and the contents were almost as bad as the letters of 1892. You read letter after letter from 1901 to 1913 before you had to stop and rip yourself away from this man's life, this man who now had a wife and two children. You almost didn't believe it, but there it was, their names itched deep into the paper as if Antonio wanted them to be remembered - that after all he had written before, if they only thing to come out alive, it would be their names.

His wife was a Belgian woman named Bella, a beautiful and cheeky blonde - a complete contrast to Roderich's more stiff nature and dark completion. His older daughter was named Chiara and he described her as fierce and unbridled and larger than life, you could tell where he would scratch out the silent question: What would Roderich think of her?

Antonio's youngest child was a boy, born in 1907. He was, apparently, full of dark hair and had darker eyes - sometimes Antonio would have Roderich's name at the tip of his tongue whenever he looked to him, so that's what his name was. Antonio, who married Bella, had two children and named them Chiara and Roderich, and he told none of them of what he had done or who he had loved.

At least, that was what you thought, anger just barely in check as you believed Antonio forgot about the deed he had done, until you read the very last letter. You picked up the letter once again and the memory of first seeing it buried underneath hours of reading and thousands of letters. You, almost violently, ripped it opened, positive that Antonio deserved your rage. But then you stopped.

Stopped feeling, stopped reading, stopped thinking, stopped breathing; you just stopped. There, in the folder paper you thought to be a letter, was a photograph. You remembered seeing a picture like this, but in that picture there was a sickness in the air. In this one, however, it was like seeing twins join together for the first time in 20 years.

The picture held the same people: Elizabeta, Antonio, Francis, Gilbert, Ludwig, Vash, Lili, and Roderich. Except they were all young, all blooming into their mid-20s, and it was dated as October 26th, 1890. Everyone was piled on top of each other, with Roderich dead center; Ludwig, Gilbert, and Elizabeta on his left while Antonio, Francis, Vash, and Lili stood to his right. Yet you saw only one thing: a simple handhold. The two dark-haired lovers who stood together held each other's hands, shoulders pressed intimately close to one another and you could see that they had no care in the world besides each other.

Your breath escaped you, as did all your rage, and your heart swelled to see the now familiar spastic writing of Antonio that bordered the edge of the photo. It was light, as if he didn't want to mar the picture at all, but clear enough for you to see the message:

_'Happy birthday, my dear Roderich! I hope every wish you make comes true. Yours forevermore, Antonio_   _Fernández Carriedo.'_

But, when you slowly took the picture from the paper, you could see writing on it. Only a few words had been written down, but it was enough to have all the air in body rush out all at once:

_'Do you remember this day Roderich? You had told me that we would one day marry. I am married now, to a woman I think you would have liked. Oh Roderich, I see you in my son, but I wish to see you. Could you ever forgive me for being a fool? It was not you who ruined us, but me. Yours forevermore, Antonio_   _Fernández Carriedo.'_

Your heart felt empty and hollow as you gazed down at the photograph. Out of all of the letters you had read, it was _this_ one that would get Roderich to understand. However, you could not move; could not find the motivation to stand and rush to Roderich and show him what he had missed. That was until you heard muffled footsteps and you shrank back, as if the pillows you rested on could hide you from the approaching stranger.

It did nothing to hide you and the footsteps stopped right in front of you. You were prepared to snap at Lovino to live you be, but it was Feliciano's smiling eyes that you saw once you looked up. Immediately his eyes turned sad, though he did not stop smiling as he bent down to organize the letters once more. You were sure the action took well over half and hour to complete, but you just continued to sit and watch in silence as Feliciano gently placed each and every letter back into the box.

Well, almost every letter.

Feliciano, the youngest in the long line of the Carriedo's, looked at the picture in your hand before he turned to look at you: your eyes still red, your cheeks still flushed, your lips still bitten - the evidence of tears bright and shining against the misery in your expression. Again, he smiled, and sweetly took your hands before dropping to press a kiss on the palms of both. He said nothing as he pried your stiff fingers open and took the envelope from your grasp, though you held tight to the letter and picture in your other hand.

Breathlessly, Feliciano laughed and winked before he folded up the envelope and stuck it with the rest of the letters, placing it back where it belonged as if it still contained its precious cargo. You gaped at him, your mouth parted just enough for Feliciano to gently close it. He reached for a pocket in his slacks and, with flair, presented you a handkerchief. With little pressure, he erased the dried tear tracks and dabbed at your eyes, tenderly willing the redness away. After a few minutes he sat back and looked you over with a critical eye before nodding and finally standing back up.

You scrambled to your feet as well, only to be caught up in a warm hug that made you want to burst into tears all over again. It was a fleeting feeling and Feliciano stepped back after only a few seconds, leaving you cold and tired.

His hands lingered on your upper arms, his fingers seemingly the only thing that kept you standing. He gripped you tighter before murmuring, "I do not know what you wanted with my ancestor's letters nor why you cannot part with that picture, but I trust you. Please, whatever you have to do, it is the _most_  important thing right now. Now," Feliciano stood back and let his arms fall back down to his sides, but his eyes, molten gold and beseeching, would not leave you as he whispered, " _go_."

You do not know what finally kicked sense into you, maybe it was the urgency in his eyes or the command in his voice, but you found yourself sprinting pass everything. Your surroundings was nothing but one continuous blur as you raced your way out of the library, bursting out of the door and into the night. You didn't hear the shouting of Lovino nor the honks of cars as you paid no attention to the busy streets; you were given a job and, by God, it would be completed that night.

You ran as hard as you could, the burn in your legs and in your lungs a reason to keep going, not a cause to stop. The wind, which howled earlier and continued to howl now, pushed at your back as if Nature itself was urging you on.

The park was fifteen minutes away from the library, but the rush in your muscles and bone made that time shorten into only five, your adrenaline pushing you until you collapsed at the swing-set. A familiar voice gasped at your ragged and abrupt appearance and Roderich was suddenly the only thing you could see.

"________, dear God, what happened to you? You weren't mauled by something, were you child? Honestly, I've never seen anyone as haggard as - !"

" _Roderich_ ," you wheezed, cutting off the Austrian man's tirade, "I know. Everything, Roderich, I know - I know what happened to you."

The musician leaped off of you as if you had just burned him, " _What_? How could you!? Absolutely no one gave you the right to invade my privacy like that - I do not care if I could move on because of it, there is nothing in this world that could - !"

" _Roderich_!" You yelled before falling into a coughing fit. He stayed silent throughout your gasps, but he did not come any closer. Once you could manage to lift yourself back up, you crawled over to the swing-set and sat in your usual seat. You leaned against the chain and thrust the picture and letter out at him, "Read this. Please. If not for yourself, then for Antonio. Please Roderich, just read it."

You could see the visible tightness in Roderich's shoulders at the name of his former lover and murderer, but he snatched the papers from you anyway. You were about to dive for the picture and letter, it seemed the Roderich forgot that being a ghost almost meant that he couldn't touch things, but the two didn't flutter away in his non-existent grip. While you stared on, awed at the seemingly impossible thing that just occurred, Roderich didn't notice a single thing.

You could tell when he finally got to the letter as tension snapped through his body, only to leave him all at once, sending Roderich to his knees. You leaped forward and tried to grab Roderich's shoulders, only for your hands to go through him. He looked up, his violet eyes wide and cheeks streaked with tears, and smiled. Not a single day since you met him did Roderich ever truly smile - little twitches at the corner of his mouth was the biggest you'd ever gotten.

But you weren't shocked to hear him mutter, "Oh, Antonio. My sweet, sweet _idiot_."

Slowly he began to fade, his brightness finally draining from the Earth like it should have done in 1892. He looked into your eyes and murmured, his voice so far away, "I never did tell you how much you looked like him. Like Antonio. Maybe that's why I was never truly nice to you, and I apologize for that. For you to do this, thank you."

His words ended on a whisper and then he was gone, the picture and letter with him as well. Eyes seeing nothing, you stood back up, knees quaking under the pressure of your weight, and you slowly trudged back to the swing. You sat there, the air finally still around you, and closed your eyes as your head tilted back up to the night sky.

You wondered how Roderich and Antonio were doing up there, and you smiled and thought, _'God, Toni's going to get an earful when Roderich gets there.'_

Your eyes fluttered open and there, far above you, streaking across the great, clear sky was a falling star. Your smile turned into a grin and laughter bubbled from your throat as you flung your arms above your head, as if you could reach for that falling star. As if you could reach for the soul that rested on it.

As if you could turn back time and see Roderich again and again and again, like how Antonio used to do. But never again, thanks to you. Nevermore, evermore, forevermore - as long as Antonio got a say in it.

_''Yours forevermore', huh? That fits, Antonio, and I'm a little sad that you'll never know just how well.'_


End file.
